


the world you must have crossed

by Anonymous



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Cis-Swap AU, F/F, NOW WITH A FIX-IT SECOND CHAPTER, Post-Canon Fix-It, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Snapshots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2020-11-28 00:43:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20957627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “So wait, Eddie — ” Richie says, cheap alcohol burning in the back of her throat, “ - you got married?”Eddie’s eyes are coal-dark across from her, blazing as she scowls - “Yeah? What’s so fucking funny about that - ““What, to like, a man?“





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> just a quick idea I had! was peer pressured into quickly writing this lmao. truly might make this into some kind of fix-it later on, bc I'm still sad about them (WOW), so let me know what you think!!

“So wait, Eddie — ” Richie says, cheap alcohol burning in the back of her throat, “ - you got married?” 

Eddie’s eyes are coal-dark across from her, blazing as she scowls - “Yeah? What’s so fucking funny about that?“

  
  
“What, to like, a man?“ 

One of the others interjects, amid other snorts and groans: “Hey, Richie - “

“And what the fuck about it?” Eddie snaps right back though, her shoulders going up defensively. Richie feels like she’s swallowed some kind of heat, the feeling trapped in her chest just with that one look, as she grins so wide her face starts to hurt.

Eddie has that same frenetic energy about her, that she’d had at thirteen, and now apparently at forty, spitting out across the table, as beside her Mikey rolls her eyes. “Fuck you, bitch - “

Richie hoots. “Fuck you!”

  
  
“ - come on, guys - “

“ - yeah, like Richie’s gotten married!” Bev exclaims, his eyebrows raised, a flush high on his cheeks. 

“Oh, you haven’t heard?” Richie says, innocently. “I got married!”  


“Yeah, right - “

  
  
“No, no - “ and Richie turns back to Eddie, widening her eyes. “You didn’t know?”

  
  
Eddie tilts her head. “What? No - “

Bev says, “No fucking way - “

“Yeah, I got married,” Richie says, “Your mom and I are real happy - “ and Mina’s spitting out her drink, choking, as Bev rolls his eyes and pretends like he’s not grinning, and Mikey’s now full-on guffawing, and Eddie’s turning to her just as fast, demanding, “_What the fuck do you think you’re laughing at _\- “ 

For a moment, Richie catches sight of them, of their reflection in the glossy, dark glass around the table. It’s probably doing a shitty job of keeping their drunk laughter from the rest of the restaurant, but she sees them, reflected - 

Who would have thought, Richie Trashmouth Tozier back in Derry. And she’s there, with none other than Eddie Kaspbrak, in the flesh - and John Beverly and Bennie Hanscom - and holy _fuck_, did she turn out to be hot - and Mikey Hanlon, and sweet, sweet Mina Denbrough - sitting here, like they were kids again. And Sara -

The Losers Club, all together again. How could she have forgotten this?

Shit. Sara should be here - 

Sara _should _be here. So where the fuck is she?

\---

But Richie doesn’t have long to consider it, because then there are fucking spiders crawling out of their _fucking _fortune cookies, and then Bev makes the phone call and _god damn it, Sara— _

\---

The nicknames had come about a long time ago. It was Eddie, first - 

In 1989, Eddie had gone by Edwina, then, only any time any of them shouted her name - and fuck, it was a mouthful, sure, but also Richie had seen the way that not-yet-Eddie’s shoulder had gone tight every time they said it. She was a goddamn idiot at fourteen, but she also notices how Mrs. Kaspbrak always stares after not-yet-Eddie with narrowed eyes, how she’ll go nowhere without that fucking fanny pack, like how she always has to borrow a pair of Richie’s shorts when they hang out because God knows her mother thinks that she’ll get thrown into the backseat of a trunk by some creepy old guy, or worse, burn in hell if she doesn’t wear a skirt - and how Mrs. Kaspbrak bellows, _Edwina _in that similar way, when she needs to hurry back home for her next set of pills- 

Richie nudges her, bumping her shoulder into hers like the breeze. They’re sitting in the long summer grass on their bellies, the others a little ways away, because Richie got a new comic book and she’s letting not-yet-Eddie read it first. 

Not-yet-Eddie, incredibly carefully, peels away each page at a time, her brow furrowed as she reads. Her legs are pressed all along Richie’s from here, as she’s careful not to even crease the spine, and Richie can feel her sweat, but at the same time, there’s a different flush zipping up her thigh, up her spine- 

She’s got an awfully itchy bug bite just over her shoulder, but she doesn’t want to move to scratch it. Not-yet-Eddie’s hair sticks in wisps of dark curls all around her forehead, and the longer Richie stares at her, it’s like staring up at the sun. 

“You should go by Eddie,” she says suddenly. 

Not-quite-Eddie blinks up from the book. “Huh?” 

“Your name’s fucking dorky,” Richie says.  


“Fuck off. It’s a family name.”

  
  
“Fucking _dork_,” Richie sings out, then says, “Come on. Eddie sounds cool.”

  
“Sounds like a boy.” She doesn’t state the obvious, which is probably because Richie has gone by Richie for all of her life, and she doesn’t have parents who care what she does or what name she goes by unless CPS was maybe busting down the Tozier door. 

“Nah,” Richie says, “It’s got like - an edge to it. Fucking punk.” Somewhere in the distance, they can hear Mina’s excited stuttering, Sara saying something that’s lost in the wind - 

  
  
“My ma would flip. And I’m not a _punk_.”

  
  
“Nah, _punk_,” Richie emphasizes. “Come on. You really want to start high school as _Edwina Kaspbrak_? Sound like even more of a frigid virgin - _” _and the newly christened Eddie shoves her back, comic book be damned, until Richie’s face is pressed into the dirt, still gasping and laughing as Eddie pinches her arms all over. Selfishly, later, she looks at the red marks and hopes they stay, because it’s something to remind her -

_How could she have forgotten_?

When the other Losers had accumulated, some of them had changed their names, too. Bev was the type of cool guy to go by his last name, and he was tall enough at fourteen that with a perpetually bruised cheek and fiery eyes, it had fit, somehow. Bennie, then round and big-hearted, well, she’d been caught by Bev humming some Elton John under her breath, and the nickname just stuck. Bennie was starry-eyed enough to have friends, to have Bev teasingly pull at her headphones, that she didn’t mind if they forgot her original name eventually.

_What else has she forgotten?_

Mikey, too, shortened her name, and she said it with a snap, like she had decided it herself and just stuck with it. Mikey was like that, firm and impossibly kind all together, the last to join and probably the only one of them smart enough to get a chance to get out of this town, one day.Stuttering Mina, well, she was Richie’s friend first, their leader, the girl who’d held them all together eventually. And Sara - 

Sara fucking Uris. In 2016, Richie punches a mirror, because Sara had bled out in a bathtub, all goddamn alone, and the worst thing was that she didn’t know if she hated her or envied her for it. 

_What if she forgets again?_

\---

In 2016, in one of the less sketchy rooms at the inn, Eddie’s leg jiggles on the bed. Half-heartedly, from where she’s lying down, Richie says, “Stop it. You’re making me fucking nervous just sitting here.”

  
  
“Go back to your own room, then, you bitch,” Eddie says, but it carries no heat. Richie’s glasses are pushed up into her hair, probably helplessly tangled, but she rubs her face now.

She should be packing. She should be getting up off the dusty bedspread, hopping in that bright red convertible and speeding back to L.A. before the sun rises again in Derry - 

“You think,” Eddie starts, then stops. Richie rubs her eyes so hard she sees black stars, but it doesn’t stop how she can feel Eddie next to her this whole time. 

“Never,” Richie deadpans, a few moments too late, and Eddie hits her lightly on the shoulder. Richie doesn’t remove her hands, which is a good thing, because then the mattress is dipping next to her, and then Eddie’s lying down next to her, her sharp shoulder digging into hers, her hip bone practically boring a hole into Richie’s waist. She’s still so tiny - 

Richie swallows. She says, out loud, “Fuck.” 

“Sara didn’t deserve this,” Eddie says, sounding hollow. “She didn’t.”

“None of us fucking deserve this.” 

“Are you leaving?”

  
  
“Goddamn right I’m leaving,” Richie says, a little muffled. “Heard Netflix is talking about giving me a special this year. Think I can work both our forgotten childhood friend’s suicide plus a kid-eating clown into the skit naturally?”

“Have some fucking respect - “

“You love your husband with that mouth?” Richie says and instantly regrets it. She can hear the breath catch in Eddie’s chest for a second, then the quiet hiss as she releases it.

A few minutes later, she dares, “Eddie - “ 

But Eddie’s voice floats into her ear, next, quiet again, and Richie shuts up. “He takes care of me,” she says. “You know. When I said I was headed here, he was worried that I was rushing into something. That I didn’t need the distraction.”

“Christ, Eddie, he sounds like your mom. You don’t call him Daddy, do you?”

  
  
Eddie hits her again, none too gently this time. “You’re really not married by now?” she asks, then, taking the breath out of Richie’s lungs much more effectively than any hit.

She tells her producers that she’s a career woman, only a little ironically. She tells the men she goes on coffee dates with, in public, that she’s just _not that interested, busy, sorry_. She tells the women she fucks at night when there are no cameras around, _it’s not you, it’s me_. 

What the fuck does she tell her? 

“Naw, baby,” Richie says finally, uncovering her face to leer. “Your mom didn’t want to sign my prenup, you see, and she was after that Netflix special money - “

  
  
“Bitch,” Eddie says again, and she turns her head to face her at the same time. Lying on the dark green coverlet, her hair fanning around her head, Richie thinks she’s the goddamn prettiest sight she’s ever seen in the world, let alone in Derry.

“Didn’t think I could ever forget you,” Eddie says, eyes boring into hers, and Richie feels like she’s on top of a cloud, ready to plummet back to earth at any second. 

“Yeah, well,” Richie says, “Weird post-clown amnesia does that.”

  
  
“I’m serious,” Eddie says, and her eyes drop, focusing somewhere above Richie’s neck, or maybe she just can’t quite tell in the dim lighting if they’re on Richie’s mouth or not. “We would’ve - I don’t know. Known each other, like this.”

Richie swallows, like glass scraping down the inside of her throat, at the yearning that punches through her ribs at the words. “Aw, Kaspbrak,” she says because she can’t have anything escape her, not now, “You baby-sized lesbo - “ 

Eddie’s cheeks color, rapidly, and she sits up just as fast. “Fuck off, Richie,” she says, getting up off the bed and stiffly stalking off into the bathroom. The door slams shut, and Richie can only blink in the space that Eddie leaves behind because she can’t -

Eventually, she gets up, and she calls through the door, “Once you’re finished deep cleaning or whatever you’re up to in there,” she says, “I’m out front.”

  
  
Eddie doesn’t answer, and Richie sees herself out.

\---

The fucking clown sneers down at her, says, I KNOW YOUR SECRET, I KNOW YOUR SECRET —

And she’s fourteen, token in her clammy fingers, and Eddie’s hair flutters in the wind, and she never knows how close is too close, or if she can even stand to touch her, if Eddie will feel her fingerprints on her skin and scrub them away, or worse, if Eddie realizes that Richie wants what she can’t have, that every touch has some meaning behind it that she can’t give her, and she wants - God, she wants, and she’s got a big, trashy, mouth, and her mother despairs that she still wears those thick black-rimmed glasses, and Eddie smiles at her and Richie thinks that for all the clowns in the world, there’s something warm and bright and it’s how she feels when Eddie lets her just touch without another word - 

\---

Somewhere inside of the house on Neibolt, Richie and Eddie walk with their arms pressed against each other, unwilling to step too far away in case Pennywise tries to pull any shit.

Richie must glance over every thirty seconds, at the bandage over Eddie’s cheek, at the tight twist of her mouth, for Eddie eventually snaps, “Come on. You keep on looking at me like I’m gonna die next.” 

  
  
“Well, damn, Eds,” Richie says, because she can't find the strength to be serious, even now, even after Eddie nearly got killed and they're all hunting this clown once again, “If you want to go back and nab that Pomeranian, don’t let me stop you.”

“Bitch.” Eddie stops, though, dead in her tracks, and Richie freezes too. “Promise me," Eddie says suddenly, "You’re not going to do something dumb.”  


"You know I'm physically, nay, emotionally incapable - "  
  
  


"Richie." 

“Eddie." 

“Promise me,” Eddie repeats, and Richie can only nod, seeing how insistent she is, how she can't hide from that either. They’re both covered in sweat and terror and muck, and they still have to descend into that cavern down below their feet, and the lines around Eddie’s eyes deepen as she stares right into Richie's eyes, and Richie has never wanted so much to touch - 

“Want a blood oath?” Richie says in an attempt to lighten the mood. “You’re bleeding plenty for the both of us.” 

Eddie’s eyes continue to search hers. 

“Are you happy?” she asks, and Richie can’t keep the ghost of the smile on her face. “In L.A. - do you have someone? Anyone?”

  
  
“Uh,” Richie says, “This is kinda a weird time to talk about that, don’t you think - we should go out for brunch, get drunk on mimosas and have this kind of quality girl bonding - “

The house groans around them, and they both fall silent for a single, panicked second. Eddie’s grimy, soft hand finds hers, and Richie squeezes, tightly, on instinct. 

  
  
“I’m going to visit you in L.A.,” Eddie says, when they’re both somewhat reassured that Pennywise isn’t about to jump out and bite off their heads, and she hadn’t let go of Richie’s hand. “When this is all over.”

She's slow with the comeback, caught off guard. “Oh, so I’m playing Martha fucking Stewart for you now?” 

“I’m not letting you into my fucking house,” Eddie says, eyes flashing, and Richie is so goddamn in love with this woman. “You’d probably break something.”

Richie pictures some hulking man that Eddie’s married to. He probably works in insurance or risk assessment like her, or maybe he’s Sonia Kaspbrak’s dream son-in-law, a doctor who’s loose with the prescriptions. She thinks she wouldn’t want to be in that house, either.  “What, you collect old lady china or something?”

“Dowry,” Eddie says, drier than bone. “I’ll bring some to you like a fucking housewarming present.” 

“Ma and Pa let you off the prairie wagon to New York with those heirlooms, huh?” 

“Say you’ll let me,” Eddie says, as Richie could ever say no. The house creaks again, and Richie’s hand tightens reflexively on hers. "Richie." 

Fine, sure,” Richie says, once again too slow to recognize the urgency in Eddie's eyes until it's nearly boiling over - that she's seen before but never directed like this, and not in twenty-seven years either. “You’ll get sunburned to shit out west. I’ll have to buy you one of those cheap-ass umbrellas for your trip between Whole Foods and the car, because I assume you won’t want to eat my food, either.” 

  
  
“Sounds about right,” Eddie says flatly, but the corner of her mouth quirks up. If Richie was a braver woman, she’d touch the corner of her mouth, maybe even kiss her. Convince her to come to L.A. and never leave. 

But she has to be brave, now, to kill a fucking clown, and really, neither of them are good at taking any kind of risk. 

\---

When it’s all over - 

\---

_Eddie_.

\---

Why the fuck did -

\---

The sob is wrenched from her, more like a howl, as Mikey holds her back, and there are more arms around her, as they watch the house fold into itself, and there is still blood on her glasses - 

Why did she -

\---

_Fuck._

\---

They exchange tight, shaking hugs before they all split apart. Richie waits until the late afternoon, and she heads over to the bridge once more. 

She thinks she could sleep for a thousand years and still feel this kind of bone-tired, this sort of agony that doesn’t go away with rest or booze or anything. She’ll try, but she thinks she’ll carry it with her. 

The wood under her fingertips is more grey than she remembers. With her knife, she finishes carving it out again, each pass like she's leaving some scar out in the world - in case. 

Richie traces the E that she had carved there, and she says, “I won’t forget.” 

\---


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JUST A QUICK FIX-IT TO CHEER EVERYONE UP, INCLUDING ME, THANKS

The kids in Derry, they used to say that the covered bridge granted wishes. When they were teenagers, they’d throw coins off the side, into the water below. Stubby ends of joints, too, rocks, anything dredged out of ratty pockets. They’d think to themselves some wish, even as they’d laugh at the dumb superstition out loud, because anyone who grew up in this town knew how dangerous it was to voice your wants out loud. 

When Richie was fourteen, she chucked a token off the bridge, thought to herself, Just let me be happy. Stupid fucking teenagers. That answer was right in front of her, all along, and now she’s going to have to head back to LA with the realization that it’s really over, now. 

When she’s finished carving the initials into the side of the bridge, she’s thinking about wishes. 

  
Richie fishes in her pockets for something, coming up not a coin, but a crinkle of paper in the front of her jeans. She fishes it out. 

“This is bullshit,” Richie tells the receipt in her hand. It’s from the parking meter, from the hotel, when she was throwing her bags in that stupid, shiny car, and trying to convince Eddie -

Richie crumples it up so fast, she digs her fingernails into her palm and feels like she’s drawn blood.

She’d already said out loud what she had to. She’ll never forget, but she’s never going to be stoic or decent about it, and so Richie stuffs down the sob that threatens to spring free from her throat once again. 

_I wish I could’ve told you._ She hoists her arm back, throws the paper into the river below in a high arc.

It disappears into the water. Only in the movement, her car keys get jostled enough so that they, too, go flying. She watches for a moment as they slide along the rail of the bridge before falling down, too. 

“Fuck,” Richie mutters, already scrambling after them, vision half-blurry from tears already. 

The embankment is short but steep, and Richie’s already imagining the article announcing the untimely event of her cracking her head open as she slips and stumbles down the hill. Tozier Bites it In Hometown; Women Everywhere Weep, and she catches her hand on a rock coming down, and now she’s actually bleeding, “Shit, fuck - “ 

She gets down to the water, where she thought she saw the glint of her keys. Her hand throbbing, Richie scans the water, feeling like her skin’s too tight from frustration and grief. That’d be her luck, all right, getting trapped in Derry after everything by losing her fucking car, everyone leaving her to go live the rest of their stupid fucking lives, happy and not paying attention to Richie because Richie’s joking all the time, _she’ll be fine, she always is_ -

The brackish water flows quickly, coming from a large pipe just down the river. Richie just hopes that the keys sank fast, as she doesn’t even bother to toe-off her shoes before wading right into the water, that they didn’t get carried away by the current. 

As she moves to the center where she thinks the keys might’ve fallen, she dips her hand into the water to wash away the blood. The water is surprisingly cold, and Richie pointedly doesn’t think about the last time she was submerged in water like this, wiping blood off her glasses. 

She squints down in the water, trying to make out the glint of metal, looking up and down the stream as she goes.

That’s how she hears it, first. There’s a dull thud, and Richie thinks she must have stepped on something, the mud making a weird noise - only she stops moving, and it happens again.

Thud. 

Richie’s stomach sinks, because if it turns out that the fucking clown has pulled some stunt and he’s back, then Richie is definitely going to die right here, all because of those dumb keys. No one’s going to even know what happened to her - 

What she’s not expecting is for a decidedly human figure to emerge from the huge pipe, and certainly not on that looks so heartbreakingly familiar. Richie squints, because even though she’s wearing her backup glasses, the prescription’s a little old, and there’s no way - 

“This is fucking disgusting,” Eddie says, though it’s really more of a wheeze, as she approaches. Richie just fucking stares at her, as she wipes a hand over the back of her filthy face. She’s covered in grime, in the same clothes that she was wearing when she died. There’s not even a hole in her shirt, but there’s still a bandage on her cheek, still stuck on by some gross-looking tape. 

Eddie says, “Richie? Is that you?” 

Maybe she really did hit her head. But Eddie’s lip curls, and she swears again, and Richie doesn’t care if this is not real, she has to believe - but she can’t believe - 

“You,” Richie starts toward her, then stops. “You’re here.” 

“Yeah, no shit,” Eddie says like she hadn’t bled out two days ago, and then walked out of a drain pipe when Richie’s looking for her goddamn car keys. “What the fuck happened to me?” 

Covered in sewer filth, she’s beautiful. Richie really doesn’t know, and she’s not going to fucking ask, because Eddie is fucking right in front of her, and if this is some shitty move by Pennywise, well, she’ll just risk it. She half-stumbles forward again, enough so that Eddie’s eyes go round. “What are you doing?“

Richie launches herself forward, half-slipping in the rocks and the mud. She seizes the back of her stained shirt, like Eddie’s about to dissolve in the water right in front of her eyes, unless she holds on with all her strength. 

And Richie hasn’t prayed to any god for thirty years, but she’ll become a nun if it means keeping her alive right here, oh please, don’t let me wake up from this - 

Eddie coughs wetly, but her hands are coming back around to Richie’s back, where she holds on in return. “Ow,” Richie can hear her hiss, but she’s hugging her back, and Richie laughs half-hysterically into the top of her head, because she’s alive, she’s alive, she’s alive - 

“This is so disgusting,” she thinks she can hear Eddie mumble into her neck, but she still hugs her back. 

\---

Once she can stand to let her go, Richie pulls Eddie back up to the road. She pushes her in front all the way up, because she can’t stand to turn her back on her, in case she’s really slipped and hit her head and this is some weird concussion thing, but the longer that Eddie remains, the more she lets herself hope. 

Once they’re both up, Richie realizes that she still doesn’t have her car keys. She can’t even find it in herself to care, slamming on the driver’s side door for a second in a weird expression of the absolute joy she feels. 

“Are you okay,” Eddie says slowly, probably because she hadn’t just had the love of her life materialize in front of her, and Richie probably does look insane right now. 

“Well, you’re gonna have to flutter those eyelashes, Kaspbrak,” Richie says, absolutely sounding crazed even to her own ears, “We’re going to need to hitchhike out of here, and you’re going to have to do some convincing.” Eddie levels an unimpressed look at her, and fuck, it really is her. “You don’t have your phone on you?”“Oh. Yeah,” Richie says, belatedly. She drags it out of her pocket, swings it in her fingertips. “I - just. Uh. Do I call Mikey or Bev, or - “ “Jesus, how have you lived for this long? Give it to me,” Eddie demands, holding out her hand. Richie gives her a phone, and watches her dial the phone to get them a cab, feeling the huge smile split across her face. If Eddie notices, she doesn’t say anything, nor tell Richie off, but Richie thinks that maybe her ears are a little pinker, underneath all the grime. 

She decides to hold off on telling the rest of the squad about Eddie, at least until she can get a phone charger because it seems like the sort of thing an extended phone call might be appropriate for. Or maybe she’s selfish because the only thing Richie wants to do right now is staring at Eddie, drink in the sight of her, no matter how much Eddie squirms under her gaze, mutters something under her breath as she tries to wipe off the mud from her body. 

While they’re waiting, Eddie stops combing through her hair like she’s been shocked, and she says rather abruptly, “You’re you." 

Richie blinks. “What?”

“I mean - what happened to Pennywise?” and shit, she doesn’t know. “Did you get him?“

“Dead,” Richie says, “Weird, final-form-was-a-baby dead. We killed him - “ and she hesitates for the briefest moment, before saying, “Two days ago.”

“Oh.” Eddie’s not dumb, she can read between the lines, the way Richie tears her eyes away from her for the first time. She can hear her swallow. “And did I - “

“Doesn’t matter,” Richie says instantly, snapping her head back up, “You’re here now.”

“I remember getting stabbed,” Eddie says, some weird expression dawning on her face, “I remember trying to hold on - and then I woke up here, and God, I know I died.” 

“You’re here,” Richie insists. “Richie, if I died, and I don’t know how I got back - ““I don’t know how, either,” Richie says, with ferocity that seems to take Eddie by surprise. “But fuck, I’m not going to pull on that thread, and neither are you, nor anyone else. I thought - we thought we lost you."

“You don’t know if it’s really me,” Eddie says heatedly, like it’s not a knife to her heart, “How do you know this isn't - " 

“I just do,” Richie says, feeling helpless because there’s only one way to explain this surge of feeling, and she can’t risk it, not when Eddie’s still clearly on edge. “I just have to - can’t that be good enough?”

Because what if it isn’t - what if Eddie thinks that something’s wrong, or it’s not all of her, or if she can’t wrap her head around it? There's a million questions floating around, and Richie doesn't give a fuck if it means that this - this is real. 

But then Eddie just nods once, shakily exhaling. “Okay,” she says, “I trust you,” and Richie exhales, too. 

—-

Richie texts their group chat, _Eddie is alive_, because she really doesn’t know how else to put it. 

Immediately, it starts buzzing, and Richie should call ahead like she’s not an asshole to just drop that on them. But Eddie’s singing in the motel bathroom, off-key and utterly unrepentant about it, and Richie lets the first sob come, letting it all drain out of her. 

By the time Eddie comes out, she’s mostly done and tries to hide it on her face. But Eddie’s been always been able to see right through her, and she seems to have the decency to turn away, to let Richie have this fucking moment.

Only her suitcase - and she had said something about how it was good that Richie had kept all of her shit, thank god, the right cotton/poly blend is always a nightmare to find - is where all her clothes are, so Richie has to bite back sobs of a very different kind now when Eddie’s in a tiny ragged motel towel, and the soft curve of her ass is right there, just barely covered by the terry cloth - 

Richie tears her eyes away, lets Eddie get dressed. Eventually, Eddie sits down on the bed beside her, and she’s nearly close enough to be pressed up all against her. She’s got Richie’s phone in her hand, and she’s frowning down at it. 

They're probably all freaking out, thinking that the clown got her phone or some shit. Eventually, Richie and Eddie will meet up with all of them, do the hey-she's-alive-you-guys-I-wasn't-kidding tour, but for now, Richie just closes her eyes and breathes. 

“Hey,” Eddie says, “You have fifty-two new text messages, you gonna answer those eventually?” Her voice is beyond sarcastic, but Richie is too busy focusing on her little finger, touching the very outside of Eddie’s bare thigh.

The rest of the Losers can wait another few minutes. Richie says, “You want to come with me to LA?” 

\---

A few weeks later, when they finally get back to LA, Eddie sends the papers for her divorce.

She moves in with Richie with only a little argument, once Richie promises to double up on the cleaning services in her place, and buy a real sofa, come on, this one looks like it has crabs. Richie happily obliges, and for those first couple of weeks, she absolutely does not reflect on the fact that she’s become roommates with the love of her life without, y’know, having the conversation on how she’s been madly in love with this woman, and ever since she quite literally came back from the dead, she’s been doing all sorts of embarrassing gay shit like pine from afar. 

During one of their FaceTime sessions, Mina starts something along the lines of wondering what it was that brought Eddie back. Richie lets them speculate - well, it's really only Mika and Mina who talk about it, because she can see from here how Eddie is alive, dancing to some 90's pop hit in their kitchen, and that's all she needs. 

Life goes on. Her manager, who clearly thought she had OD’d in some shitty Portland bar over the summer, is pleasantly surprised to find that Richie is back, and with new self-written material to boot. Eddie gets some job which she tries to describe to Richie no less than four times, each time Richie absolutely losing the plot mid-conversation because if Eddie looks damn good in just a towel, she also looks all sorts of ways in a pantsuit. 

She thinks she could spend the rest of her life like this. Just living with Eddie, making her happy, and that could be good. She’ll just shove down that whole unrequited love thing forever, and it’ll be fine, really. 

(In their private text conversation, Bev says things to her like, just tell her, or, it’s not fair to you, but Richie can hardly think of how Eddie alive and with her is at all unfair. It’s like she’s won the goddamn lottery.)

Eddie's alive, and that's enough. Richie is comfortable enough not to act, and that's fine. 

\---

  
She kind of wishes she did remember more leading up to The Moment, because later on, she remembers it as one of the most significant points in her life. 

Not like forgetting Derry, when the void of those memories yawned inside her and she didn’t even know it was missing - no, this is a different kind of forgetting, when the memory surges together and it gets blurry and bright each time she tries to recreate it in her mind.

Richie’s putting away dishes after dinner one night, Eddie talking about something for the apartment while she washes. Se really doesn’t trust Richie’s washing skills, and _why don’t you have a fucking dishwasher, you’re rich_, Eddie tells her before rather primly putting on washing gloves and hauls out the expensive soap that Richie didn’t even remember buying in the first place. 

Eddie’s saying something about her day at work as she rinses. Usually, Richie is more than happy to listen to her talk, maybe say things that sound like she’s fully listening and not distracted by the way that Eddie’s hair curls around behind her ears. There’s a buzzing in her ears, that sound building and building in her head. Tomorrow, there could be a fire, and she could die. Or maybe Eddie gets into a car accident. Or maybe lightning strikes. Maybe, and then she would never know - 

She realizes, then, that she has to do something. Maybe she just got tired of being so uncertain, of hiding, of the shame that twists in her gut at night, because it doesn't feel like honestly when she's right there and yet still far away -

“Richie?” Eddie says at her now, and she’s holding out a freshly sanitized plate in the air between them. The buzzing gets louder in Richie’s ears, as a bubble floats up above them, and Eddie slowly sets down the plate, slides off those gloves. Richie is about to explode.

Eddie bites her lip, watching her warily. “Did you just stroke out?”

The next thing Richie knows, she’s closing the distance in between them, hauls Eddie in by that dumb apron, and she’s kissing her.

Eddie makes some noise like she's surprise, then like it’s a question, and then, before Richie can tear herself away and drown herself in the dirty sink water, the second miracle happens. Eddie kisses her back, and now there are hands wrapped around the back of her neck, wet from the dishes, and she’s stepping right into Richie so that their chests are pressed together -

Richie would’ve faced a hundred clowns if it means this. If it means Eddie’s teeth tugging at her lower lip, fucking seizing the chance to pull her closer - and oh, she swallows a moan right out of Richie’s mouth, her knee sliding between Richie’s legs like she knows that she’s about to melt right into the linoleum. Until Richie’s feeling the small of her back pressed up against the counter as Eddie kisses her back like she’s been dying just as much for it, tugging that apron off and letting it fall to the ground, slipping her fingers under Eddie’s shirt to feel at the soft flesh of her stomach, feel Eddie hiss at the cool press of her fingers and arch her back against her - 

_Oh._ Richie yanks her head back, feels like she’s staring at her with wild eyes. “Eddie?” she asks because maybe she’s read this all wrong - 

Eddie’s swaying a little, with her eyes still shut. She presses a kiss against Richie’s still mouth. When Richie doesn’t kiss her back, though, she moves back just a tiny bit, too, but still keeps close, as she opens her eyes, just as surprised. 

“I thought,” Eddie says, more than a little out of breath, as Richie stares at her from too-close, dizzy with the taste of her and from the proximity all at once, “- you didn’t - that it was just me?” 

Jesus fuck. “Always,” Richie says, hoarse. “I - You had a husband. What do you mean, just you?”

“Repression is a bitch,” Eddie says, bone-dry like that’s not the funniest thing Richie has ever heard. She finally lets her hands drop from where they’re behind Richie’s head. “How long?” 

“Uh - “

“And no funny talk,” Eddie says sternly before she can even finish the starting thought to make some joke, and Richie is going to jerk off tonight thinking about Eddie talking in that voice, and she’s not even going to regret it. “Richie. How long?”

“Since we were ten,” Richie admits because she might as well. “Since we were forty, again, I dunno. Eds, it’s - it’s been you.” 

“You’re an idiot,” Eddie says crisply, then she turns and walks out of the kitchen. 

If Richie was exhilarated before, this is like a blow to the stomach, low and crushing - but Eddie stops at the doorway. “Well?”

“Well?” Richie weakly repeats. This is it. This is the killing blow, this is what that fucking clown meant by her dirty secret - who could ever love you? Not her, never her - 

“Are you coming?” Eddie says impatiently. “I thought you’d be more than ready after thirty years, and you wouldn’t want to wait.” There’s a challenging tilt to her jaw that Richie recognizes as to when she’s a little uncertain, but pushing through, that unique brand of steel. Richie knows how that jaw works when she kisses her, now, wants to bite down lightly on that chin.

Her fingers are already on her shirt buttons. Richie, under no circumstances, would ever reject that offer, but she finds that her feet are stuck to the tiles beneath her, frozen. 

  
“It’s not - it’s not just a sex thing,” she says clumsily. “Eds, when I say it’s been you - I mean it." 

This is maybe the most critical moment of her life, and words fail her. Eddie studies her, and Richie lets herself be seen, hopes that every time she’s thought of Eddie, she can read it on her face right about now. 

"Wait," Eddie says, "_That's_ what's stopping you?" 

  
"Mmmm. Yeah. I mean, if you don't - if this is just - I could go with that, but I need - you should know - " The words train has left the station, and Richie is tearing apart the tracks. 

“I’m in love with you,” Eddie says plainly, like Richie’s entire world doesn’t shift on those words. “I also want to fuck you. Are you coming?” 

Like there’s any part of her that would be running away right about now. “Yeah,” Richie says, and pushes her glasses up her nose. “Yeah, okay - “

  
\---

Kissing Eddie is good. Getting her mouth on her, fucking her with her tongue and listening to her sob into the pillow, even better. Feeling her fingers slide down Richie’s body until she’s curling those fingers right against her clit, rubbing and licking across the seam of Richie’s mouth, really good. The sight of Eddie’s dark, wavy hair curled against Richie’s pillows, while she’s in a post-orgasm daze and saying shit like, “We have to go finish those dishes, damn it,” is basically bliss. 

“We,” Richie informs her much, much later, as she kisses down Eddie’s clavicle, around the curve of her shoulder, “Aren’t going to leave this bed.” 

“Gross,” Eddie says, swatting at her. “We’re getting new sheets.” 

“Does the pillow princess feel the pea?”

“Bitch, this feels like a college dorm bed.”

“Have you been sleeping in much of those lately? Edith Kaspbrak, you cougar.” 

Eddie just shifts, pulls the blanket over them with a little bit of scowl when Richie rests her freezing feet between her calves. “We should tell the others.”

“What, that I’m going to have you sit on my face for about the next ten years?” 

  
“Beep beep, Richie.”

“Love you too, babe.” Richie swallows after she says it, and any uncertainty is soothed by the feather-light kiss that is pressed against her throat in response. 

Eddie’s hand finding hers, and holding tight onto her fingers even as they fall asleep? Nothing better. 

\---


End file.
